


A Feeling Akin To Hope

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [52]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: (just about), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:44:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4586547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theron has a nightmare, and Zevran offers comfort. Set at the beginning of their relationship proper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Feeling Akin To Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Primarily inspired by this: http://skyrimkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4941.html?thread=10609485#t10609485  
> Written late last night/very early this morning in one go.

Theron woke up with tears in his eyes and sweat covering his body as he gasped breathlessly. The uneven ground was cold beneath his bedroll, and he could feel stones digging into the fabric against his bare skin.

It took him a second to orientate himself. Everything was dark and silent, enough to make each ragged breath of his seem loud enough to echo. He gritted his teeth to stop them from becoming audible, humiliating sobs. He’d wake the others, and face more unbearable looks of pity or offers of comfort from Leliana or Alistair in the morning. He was a grown man, a Dalish elf proud of his independence. He shouldn’t be reduced to tears nearly every night like he was a child scared by the noises and shadows outside the aravel again. Damn the Wardens.

He gripped tightly at the furs, squeezing his eyes shut as he trembled despite the layers. Why was it so hard to bear? Each nightmare, by itself, would have been bearable. But this wasn’t the first nightmare he’d had tonight, or this week. Almost every night, in fact, often saw him jolting awake with eyes fearfully wide. A peaceful night’s sleep was a rarity. Damn the Archdemon. It skulked in the shadows, staring at him or whispering something he couldn’t _quite_ make out.

Slowly, slowly, the ranger’s breathing began to even out, sounding far less panicked to his own ears. He could hear the gentle sound of wind in the trees outside, the creaking of tent ropes and canvas, and the faint sound of breathing behind him. That’s right, Zevran was sharing his tent. He was so quiet. How ironic it was, to sleep with his back to an assassin given what had happened the first time he’d done that. So far, there hadn’t been a repeat.

“Theron.”

There was something in the way the Antivan said that one word that made his heart sink, ever so slightly. Now he was calming down, he could feel the pair of eyes boring into his neck, even if it would too dark to see the rest of him. Theron took a deeper breath, and cleared the unuttered cries from his throat.

“Yes?” He replied, barely above a whisper. It came out as a hoarse croak, and Theron winced. Had he cried out anyway? Whimpered in the grip of another nightmare and disturbed at least Zevran’s sleep for the umpteenth time? Creators, no. Again, the sympathetic looks around the morning’s gruel flashed through his mind’s eye, and Theron tried not to cringe. Creators damn the whole Blight.

Zevran remained expectantly silent behind him, so he spoke again.

“‘M fine.” He insisted, trying to make his voice come out firmer and accomplishing very little towards that goal when it cracked over just two syllables. He swallowed hard, ashamed with himself.

“Clearly.” Zevran answered dryly, the sarcasm dripping from his voice. The two elves were quiet for several long moments, the silence unusually awkward between them.

“I think it would be stating the obvious if _I_ told _you_ about your own bad dreams, no?” The blond continued, and Theron lay still as he felt the other elf shift closer, curl up against him. The Dalish elf hesitated, before he slowly leaned back against that solid warmth that chased away the clinging fear, feeling one strong arm curl around his stomach, and a fluttering exhalation cool against the sweat that beaded on the back of his neck.

Zevran and his voice… How could he be so good at comforting, so patient through the nights of disturbed sleep? Sometimes, Theron could have sworn he was lying awake before him and his nightmares, as if he was simply waiting for the black-haired elf to start awake and be in need of comfort.

Theron sighed deeply. Whether Zevran actually did that or not, there was no denying that he was always ready with his words and body during the night as he was with a blade or two during the day. Protective. While Morrigan or Sten would roll their eyes and never deign to offer comfort, Zevran never had anything harsh to say. He would never tut impatiently and roll over to resume his sleep.

He stayed awake, comforting a usually stoic Dalish elf through his nightly vulnerabilities. He listened to the clipped, halting explanations of death and destruction or worse, murmured in soft Antivan and offered a shoulder to cry on that, despite Theron’s hatred of crying in front of anyone else, was an offer taken up regularly. Thankfully, not tonight.

Theron’s fears and vulnerability were a weakness, and a hated one at that. Only they two elves were privy to the full extent. And it wasn’t a weakness Zevran seemed inclined to use against him, now or ever. There was trust between them now. Ironic, considering Zevran had tried to kill him twice already. Now, they knew each other in battle, as travel-worn companions. Perhaps more, even if neither were sure about being the first to voice such a terrifying prospect. There was so much that hung unsaid between them.

“You’re still trembling, Warden. Like a rabbit.” Zevran eventually commented, voice still low in the quiet of the night and close enough to one pointed ear that his breath tickled - or perhaps that was a stray few strands of hair. Theron slowly unclenched his hurting teeth, and realised they were chattering.

“Mm.” He answered. _Like a rabbit._ A prey animal driven by instinct, small and helpless in a world that wanted to devour it, bones and all. All it could do was run and hide. No wonder they shook.

Zevran carefully removed his arm and sat up, pulling the furs and blankets back over them to keep out the chill. It wasn’t the night air that made Theron shiver. When the blond lay back down, his arm tightened around Theron, pulling the ranger even closer until he was surrounded by warmth. Slowly, the shaking and trembling faded away. The wind sighed through the bare branches outside and made the stiff tent creak softly.

One of Zevran’s hands pressed against Theron’s arm, his warm palm rubbing up and down cooler skin in soothing, repetitive motions. The ranger closed his eyes, the darkness in the tent no different to the darkness behind his eyelids. Now he was close to Zevran again, he could smell the tang of sweat and leather, the deathroot poison he’d spent the evening painstakingly applying to his blades. All of it, as reassuring and comforting as touch.

Zevran’s hand skimmed over his ribs.

“Despite your infamous Grey Warden appetite, I doubt it should be this easy to feel your ribs.” Came a mildly chiding comment that neither of them expected a reply to, and Theron found himself smiling weakly as he felt the assassin’s hand come to rest over his stomach once again, arm draped almost carelessly, casually, over his side. Almost. Something fluttered and bloomed in Theron’s chest and made his breath catch briefly.

“And even though I am convinced that the Ferelden nights are conspiring to freeze off certain various, delicate parts of my anatomy I would be lost without, even I must admit that the night air smells so sweet.” Zevran continued softly, and Theron felt his braids being carefully moved out of the way so Zevran could hook his chin over his shoulder, pressing closer. The blond’s voice vibrated against his bones and settled there as if that was where it belonged. “It is so peaceful here, so _quiet_. I have lived my life in a crowded port city. To exchange it for _this_ , of all things in the world...?”

Theron felt the Antivan’s chest rise and fall against his back in a deep, contemplative sigh. There was always the chance Zevran was simply chattering away as he often did to try and lull him back to sleep or to fill the silence, but Theron remained awake and unmoving. Perhaps Zevran thought he was already asleep?

His breathing was slow and steady, and the ranger was calm enough now to focus on falling into that rhythm. Soon their breathing was in sync, heartbeats less so. Their shoulders rose and fell, shifting minutely with every breath. Zevran’s hold on Theron hadn’t lessened; it was almost like a firm hug. Unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome. Zevran’s body curled around his despite how Theron was a few inches taller. There had been no suggestion of finding another sleeping position.

The panicked thoughts were still circling, but they were far, far overhead like buzzards looking for prey. Theron was no longer the rabbit trembling under the shadow of wings, imagined or real. The fear was remote now, manageable. If he wanted to sleep now, there was a good chance it would be peaceful and unbroken until dawn. He was calm, back in control of himself and his thoughts.

“Sleep if you wish, Theron.” Zevran murmured softly. So he’d known the Dalish elf was still awake. “I will do a better job of waking you if your nightmares return to hound you again.” He added with a gentle, self-deprecating chuckle that settled over the listening ranger like another blanket.

Theron found himself smiling again in the quiet of the tent, Zevran’s warmth and soft voice guiding him into a doze. He was already exhausted from the nightmare, the fear and tension had drained him, so it didn’t take long for the doze to become sleep proper.

When he woke again, it was to the morning light streaming through tent canvas, delicate birdsong and the noises of a stirring camp breaking the quiet, and a feeling akin to hope lodged tight in his very heart. A feeling he hadn’t dared to encourage the last time he’d felt it, and he wasn’t sure if now would be a good time either. And yet, there it was.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism, whether on this piece or any others I've posted on here, is very much welcome!


End file.
